


The Snow Day

by missdibley



Series: The Cohort [8]
Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Snow Angels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 04:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5276222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missdibley/pseuds/missdibley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom nurses Dot with tea and pumpkin pie when she comes home sniffly after an afternoon of making snow angels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Snow Day

**Author's Note:**

> I was tagged by @msharleyquinn on Tumblr to write for 5 minutes with no editing or reading. I’m ignoring the time limit (sorry) but I will obey the other rules. Enjoy this bit of fluff, which is a sort of prologue for “The Tomducken”, the next work in this series.

Dot Schmidt had made the mistake of trying to make snow angels when soft, wet flakes began to fall all over Chicago the Saturday before Thanksgiving. This was something of a secret habit, as she knew it made her seem cute or even quirky. She would be the first person to swear that she was neither of these things.

Her boyfriend Tom would then be the first person to insist that she was both.

“Sorry, darling. The fact that you were out making snow angels in Nichols Park instead of, I don’t know, terrorizing my students at the library is adorable.” He handed her a mug of hot tea. “The fact that you now have a cold, however, is not so adorable.”

Dot sneezed. “Shuddup.”

She sat on his couch, swaddled in a blanket, clad in his spare pyjamas and dry socks. Her damp tights, soggy dress, and drenched coat were draped over the radiator behind her. Dot raised her mug and coughed before taking a sip. “There’s no whiskey in this.”

“Sick puppies don’t get whiskey.” Tom kissed the top of her head as he walked to the kitchen.

“Puppieth? Who’th puppieth?” Dot scowled into her mug.

Tom came back into the living room, holding two plates. “You are a puppy. Very cute and energetic but always getting into trouble.” He sat next to Dot, then waited for her to set down her mug before handing her one of the plates. “Here.”

The plate in Dot’s hand bore a slice of warm pumpkin pie, a dollop of whipped cream on top. She stuck her hand out and Tom handed her a fork. She took a bite, chewing slowly.

“You baked thith? When?”

“This afternoon, while you were out making yourself sick.”

“But I’m not sthick! I’m jutht thniffly.”

“That may be but just in case, I’m going to keep an eye on you. And that lisp.”

“What lithp?” Dot caught herself, clamping her mouth shut as she blushed.

Tom chuckled. “That one.” When he noticed her blushing, he kissed her temple. “It’s okay. Eat your pie.”

They ate in silence, staring at their legs, which were intertwined and propped up on the coffee table.

“It’s for Thanksgiving. The pie. I found the recipe online.”

“Okay.” She nodded, then looked at him closely. “Why?”

“Even if we’re partaking in the Schmidt family tradition of eating prime rib at a steakhouse downtown, I still think we can manage homemade pie somehow.”

“That’s awfully domestic of you, Tom.” Dot smiled when he looked at her uncertainly.

“It’s not too much?”

Dot shook her head. “No. I think it’s perfect.” She set her plate down, then snuggled into his side when he followed suit. “Why pie?”

“Everybody likes pie.”

“Not everybody likes pumpkin, though.”

“Do you like pumpkin?” Tom whispered.

“It’s my favorite,” confessed Dot.

Tom kissed the top of her head. “Then that’s all I need to know.”

“We’re not going to have steak, by the way.” When Dot looked up, she smiled at the sight of Tom’s face, adorable in his confusion. “My brother texted last night to say, rather cryptically, that my parents have made different plans.”

“Meaning what?”

“I’m not sure.” Dot shrugged. “Mama and Papa usually worked on Thanksgiving, took us on the road. That’s why we always had steak. No matter where we were, we could usually find that if we couldn’t get turkey.”

"Did your brother have any idea?”

“If he did, he didn’t say anything. Typical younger brother shenanigans.” When Tom began to scoff, Dot giggled. “Anyway, Harry’s arriving Wednesday afternoon, when he will be do his best to embarrass me by telling you every dumb story from my childhood.”

“I’m sure it will be fine.”

Dot rolled her eyes. “Just wait until you hear about my  _other_  speech impediment.”

Tom laughed softly, then wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her, first on the lips, then her cheek, her jaw, and her neck. He pushed her gently until he had her lying down, him on top with his head pressed to her chest.

“And how I was really chubby. I mean, I still am, only now I don’t care so much because, well, fuck it.” Dot laughed. “Maybe Harry will have finally digitized all my childhood pictures where I’m wearing glasses  _and_  headgear. That will be  _thuper_   _thexyI”_

Tom took one of Dot’s hands and moved it to the nape of his neck so she could run her fingers through his curls. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“You’re meeting my family. It’s kind of scary. They know everything about me. They’re going to tell you everything. Your girlfriend’s a dorkus malorkus, Thomas. She’s a big nerd.”

“As if meeting her at the number 4 ranked university in the States hadn’t tipped me off.”

“I see your point,” Dot conceded.

“Precisely.” Tom yawned, then closed his eyes.

“And that makes you a dorkus malorkus, too.” Dot yawned as her eyes fluttered shut.

“Quite right, Dorothy.”

“We’re hopeless, Thomas.”

“That may be so, but at least we have pie.” Tom shifted, slipping a hand under Dot’s top so he could rest it on her warm, bare hip.

“And for that let us be thankful.”

“Amen.”


End file.
